


Cover Me

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky can haul Clint like a sack of potatoes, Clint has a thing for Bucky’s Hair, Deaf Clint Barton, Height Differences, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Mild Angst, Missions Gone Wrong, Protective Bucky, Snowed in at a Safehouse, THERE WAS ONLY ONE BED, Winterhawk Wonderland Gift Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:08:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28180677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Clint and Bucky end up off the grid and in close quarters. Featuring the world’s crappiest safehouse, a semi-retired spy, and an assassin with strong opinions about the cold.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 24
Kudos: 153
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	Cover Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [squadrickchestopher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/gifts).



> This is my Winterhawk Wonderland gift for squadrickchestopher.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/183133495@N02/50749286828/in/dateposted-public/)

The ground was swaying.

No, that was Clint. Hovering above the ground. When had he learned how to float?

No. He was tipped upside down, if the familiar, straining cramp of being hauled over someone else’s shoulder was any indication. The last time Clint found himself in this predicament, Barney had stolen a bottle of old man Carson’s flavored Schnapps and they snuck it behind the costume trailer. Barney laughed at him while he puked. Not one of his finer moments, but hey, it was educational. Duquesne had carried him back to his shabby trailer just like somebody was doing right now, except whoever it was sounded like they were from Brooklyn.

Whoever was carrying him was leaving behind deep, heavy footprints in the snow that was speckled with pine needles and twigs. Every once in a while, a ruby drop of blood would stain the pristine white. _Crap._ That was _his_. This looked kinda bad.

“Almost there, Barton. They hit you pretty hard.”

“Figures. Guess I’m not drunk, then…”

Bucky huffed a laugh and gave Clint’s lower back a rough, reassuring pat. “Nah. If you were, I wouldn’t be anywhere near this nice.”

“...thanks?”

“We’ve got about a half a mile left, just over this rise.”

“Let me walk it, then. That souped-up metal shoulder of yours is pressed up against _all_ my vital parts.”

Bucky paused, and Clint felt him shifting beneath him. Like he was craning his neck around to look at him and his eyes were only meeting Clint’s backside, which… was kinda funny, when Clint thought about it, but thinking about _anything_ made his head start to throb. “You’re in no shape to walk, Barton.”

“Sure, I am. Just set me down, Barnes, s’fine. ‘Kay?”

Bucky’s ragged sigh was long-suffering and reluctant, but he was surprisingly gentle as he lowered Clint to his (unsteady) feet. Bucky looked haggard and annoyed. Loose, messy hanks of his sable brown hair escaped his ponytail, and his face was dirty and smudged with soot. Thin, shallow scrapes marred his stubbled cheeks. He was still wearing his goggles and tac gear. Clint noticed a few tears in his clothing, but thankfully no blood stains. Then again, he was dressed in all black, because “Winter Soldier,” and all. Guy was so _extra_.

He was still holding onto Clint, gripping his upper arms in his gloved hands. “Gonna be all right?”

“Peachy keen,” he told him cheerfully as he tried to brush off his help. “Two of you don’t hafta get yer panties in a bunch.”

“Two of… you’re seeing double, aren’t y- CLINT!!!”

The world spun.

*

Someone was jarring him. Least he wasn’t upside down this time, thank _God_ and all of his little, chubby angels.

Clint heard the sound of a security plate being triggered and Bucky’s low, gruff “Barnes, James Buchanan.” 

“That sounded all official and everything. It was kinda sexy, Buck-O.”

“You can pass back out, now.”

“Awwww, where’s the fun in that?”

“Course you’ve gotta be all lanky,” Bucky muttered as he turned himself sideways to enter the narrow doorway. “Least when I had to carry Rogers upstairs after a night out, he didn’t even weigh a buck-fifty and he wasn’t all leg like you.”

“Only reason you’re carrying me at all is that fancy arm of yours, dollface,” Clint teased. 

“Nice. That didn’t sound like a thank-you.”

Clint groaned. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

“Lights,” Bucky barked, and instantly the room flooded with brightness.

“Shit… never mind. Was better before.”

“You’re _welcome_.” Clint almost felt vindicated, though, when Bucky admitted, after a moment, “I mean. You’re not _wrong_. Holy crap, this place is a _dump_.”

“Set me down, already.”

Bucky stopped short of dumping Clint onto the lumpy, fraying sofa. Clint squinted at his surroundings, taking in the knotty pine paneling along the walls and the dusty fixtures. “Ain't exactly five-star, is it, Buck?”

“My old place in Brooklyn was worse, and I know you’ve lived in worse dives yourself. We’ll just pretend it’s ‘cozy’ until we reach the Tower,” Bucky told him simply. “Here.” Clint grunted as the folded blanket hit him in the chest. Its weave was rough and scratchy, but it felt warm. “Cover up. I’ll find a first aid kit. And hopefully, something for us to eat in this dung heap.”

“Sounds so appetizing when you say it like that.”

“Just bundle up.” Bucky’s voice was still gruff and annoyed, but Clint noticed his worried expression when he finally removed his damp goggles. His slate blue eyes flitted over Clint’s injuries, cataloguing them. 

“M’fine.”

“Then, quit bleedin’ everywhere, already.”

Bucky stomped back outside for a few minutes while Clint took in their shelter. It looked like an old hunting cabin. There was an old, radiator-style space heater in the corner. Plaid flannel curtains covered the windows but still managed to let in a draft. Clint could see his own breath. Those were hardwood floors, not Pergo. Place was sturdy, but it wasn’t the Ritz. 

“We can start a fire,” Bucky told him. His arms held logs from the cord of wood stacked outside.

“Got a space heater,” Clint pointed out.

“That thing won’t do shit to heat a room this big,” Bucky argued. “We’ll close the doors to the other rooms and just stay in here tonight.”

“You think we’re gonna be here for that long?”

“You saw the snow out there.” Bucky pulled open the curtains and pointed accusingly at the flurries starting to blow down at a diagonal on the breeze that kicked up. “You’re in no shape for us to go back out there and look for help. A search team might be looking for us, but in the meantime, we’re staying inside. You’re in bad shape, Barton.”

“That’s not as reassuring as you think it sounds, Bucky.”

Bucky looked up from where he knelt down by the fireplace, already stacking the logs inside it. “We’re gonna be fine, Barton. We’ve made it this far.”

Clint sighed. “Man, I had some decent plans tonight, for a change. I was all set to watch the Westminster dog show, and my neighbor Symone and her kids were gonna stop by with some gingerbread.”

Bucky huffed. “You actually made plans tonight? Knowing you’d be in the middle of a mission? That’s some blind optimism, pal.”

“I made the plans before Rogers said anything about a mission. Last time I checked, I’m allowed to have a _life_.”

“How much of a life have you got, living in Bed-Stuy?”

“You shut your dirty mouth,” Clint grumbled. He flapped the terrible blanket out a little to better cover himself, turned onto his side, and tucked the edge of it around his drafty rump. Bucky smirked back at him as he tore pages out of an old yellow pages directory from the kitchenette and rolled them up for kindling. He used a long-handled lighter to get it started, and within minutes, a modest fire began to warm the room.

“Right. First aid kit,” he said.

“Thought you were gonna look for food.”

“Did you stop bleeding, yet?” Bucky’s tone was coy. “No? Didn’t think so.”

“Think I liked you better when you were a brainwashed assassin without any opinions or free will of your own, pal. Were you always this much of a smartass?”

“Part of my charm. I never stopped bein’ a smartass.” Bucky shed his flak jacket and gloves and rubbed his hands together by the grate, letting them thaw. His hair was dripping, leaving damp spots on his waffle knit thermal henley. Bucky finally took out the elastic in his hair and shook out the slick locks with his fingers. The lank, wavy mass hung down around his face, obscuring the sharp line of his jaw. There were still shallow indents in the crowns of his cheekbones from the press of the goggles, and his skin was flushed from the cold. Clint dimly wondered where the urge to reach out and smooth away the creases with his fingers came from, but he was laid out on the couch, out of commission, and he fully intended to keep his hands to himself, thank you very much.

Bucky noticed him staring. “What?”

“Nothin’.”

Bucky’s brows drew together. “How hard did they hit you in the head?”

“Haha, punkass.” 

Bucky’s smirk returned, though, as he left the room. Clint settled further beneath the blanket, wishing it was his imitation down comforter back in his apartment. He’d just replaced all the thermostats in the dilapidated brownstone building, one of several upgrades and repairs he had planned since he “inherited” the building from those track-suited bastards and became its landlord. It still wasn’t the coziest, but it was home, to the extent that any place could be home for Clint.

Clint heard Bucky rummaging in the back of the cabin. “Plumbing’s not the greatest,” he called back to him. “Might wanna boil the water before you drink any. There’s a ton of rust in the tub.”

Clint made a sound of disgust. “Lovely.”

He heard the low slam of a medicine cabinet and a drawer, and Bucky returned to the front room with his hands full. He set down swabs, ointment, peroxide, a roll of gauze, some tape, and a small, gray metal box held shut by rusting clips. “They didn’t spend anything on the decor, but least they have the essentials.”

“What? You don’t love the ambiance? I’m gonna redo my apartment in moose antlers, flannel and slow decay.”

“Might be a nice addition to the empty pizza boxes under the couch and all the dog hair,” Bucky countered.

“Says the guy covered in _cat_ hair every time he shows up to a briefing. Doesn’t help that you always wear _black_.”

“Hey, don’t talk smack about Alpine. That’s how she shows her love.”

“Sure, she does.” Clint sounded dubious at best. “Guess that’s love all over the back of your ass, then.” Bucky craned his neck around at that claim, then absently dusted at the wisps of fur clinging to his pants.

“Jerk,” he muttered. “I’m gonna wash my hands. Stay still.”

“Ooh, I’m getting the velvet glove treatment.”

Moments later, Bucky sat on the shabby coffee table and tugged Clint to a sitting position. “You’re all messed up, pal.”

“What else is new?”

“Sit up.” Bucky clicked on the lamp beside them and tipped its slightly battered shade so he had better light to examine Clint’s wounds. “There’s a nasty cut on your scalp, too.”

The lamplight was hurting Clint’s eyes and giving him even more of a headache. Bucky saw him wince and flinch when he swabbed at his forehead with the nubby, damp towel. “Sorry.”

“Ow…”

“I said I’m sorry.”

“Still doesn’t make it tickle, Buck-O.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

Clint sighed as Bucky continued cleaning his wounds. His hands were gentle, and for some reason, Clint had the impression he’d done all this before.

“I remember Stevie laid out on the couch like this, giving me the same look,” Bucky told him, as though he read Clint’s mind.

“Did a bunker fall on him, too?”

“Well, yeah, but I’m just talkin’ about back when we used to live in _Brooklyn_.” Humor twinkled in his eyes, and a dimple played in Bucky’s cheek. “He was hardheaded and as mouthy as they come. The serum didn’t change that about him at all, believe me.”

“Or you.”

“Shut it, Barton.” Bucky picked a shard of gravel out of Clint’s wound with a pair of tweezers that he found in the kit, making him hiss at the sting. “Rogers got that banged up just coming home from the movies on a Saturday night.”

“Try living with carnies and circus folks. Better yet, _don’t._ ”

Bucky shook his head. “This is gonna need stitches.”

“This night just gets better and better.”

“This part’s gonna go by fast. I promise.”

“Why don’t you just kiss it and make it better, Mom?” Clint teased, before he could stop himself.

Bucky’s hand paused in trimming a piece of suture, and Clint saw his pupils darken, or maybe it was just a trick of the light. Then Bucky huffed a soft laugh.

“Nobody can kiss _all this_ better.” He motioned to Barton vaguely, implying all the things.

“You’re mean.”

“You were hit pretty hard in the head. Quit blathering and let me finish this.” Clint was leaning forward on his haunches. Their knees bumped together often as Bucky worked on patching him up. The cabin was quiet except for the low hiss of wind and snow outside as it streaked against the windows, and the bathroom faucet that was now trickling at a slow, ominous drip that promised to keep them awake in the wee hours. They listened to each other breathing, and Clint tried - and failed - to ignore taking in all of Bucky’s details up close. Like the rich, rosy pink of his chapped lips, or those long, dark lashes, or the cords of muscle in his throat. Clint fought to hold still for the first prick of the sutures breaking his skin. Bucky made a soothing noise and worked carefully, creating a pristine row of stitches to close the wound. “Hope you weren’t planning any head shots.”

“No, this’ll look _great_ in my next set of eight-by-tens. As long as they get my good side.”

“That’s not hard,” Bucky mused. His lips twitched.

“What?”

“What?”

“Was that a compliment?”

“*Pffffttt…” Then, quickly, “no.”

Clint felt the warmth of Bucky’s body radiating from him, because he had to lean up even closer to him to clean and stitch the wound in his scalp. Bucky didn’t skip leg day, Clint mused to himself. Guy’s quads bulged with taut muscle, snugly encased in his heavy tak pants. Clint clutched the blanket against his body, but his elbow leaned against Bucky’s knee comfortably. It was easy to let himself sag into him, because he was exhausted, aching and cold, and Bucky didn’t seem to mind carrying Clint’s weight all that much, anyway, did he? Might as well take liberties while they were available.

“So. Gingerbread, huh?”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah. I was looking forward to it.”

“Sounds good. I can’t remember the last time I even had any.”

“Natalia tried to talk me into the gingerbread latte at Starbucks. Wasn’t the same.”

“Sure ain’t. Don’t even get me started on that pumpkin spice crap.”

Clint pulled a face. “Gads, it’s _so_ gross. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t mind a fancy coffee once in a while, but pumpkin spice is just so… it just doesn’t belong in _coffee_.”

“There’s no way any actual pumpkins made their way into that shit.”

“I didn’t even know you liked Starbucks.”

“I’m a sucker for their cocoa. It’s good.” Bucky hummed to himself as he worked on the stitches. His lower lip caught itself between his teeth as he concentrated on the cut. Clint was getting a crick in his neck from leaning his head forward for so long, and he slumped a little closer to Bucky, who sighed in exasperation and admonished him to keep holding still.

It took Clint a few seconds to realize the tune Bucky was humming. “Is that… Mariah Carey?”

“What?”

“That song. Mariah Carey?”

“I… guess?”

“Oh, my God, you’re gonna give me an earworm. I _hate_ that song!”

“Are you kidding? It’s not that bad! As far as Christmas songs go, I actually kind of _like_ this one.”

“Bucky, no! Aw, Bucky! Say it ain’t so!” Clint gave him a pained look, but Bucky snickered.

“Sorry, pal. I like that one.”

He even kept humming it, making Clint roll his eyes, and he reached up to turn down his hearing aids.

“Well, that’s just not fair,” Bucky teased.

“NOPE. Can’t hear you. Guess you’ll just have to quit singing the song of evil, now.”

But Clint still felt the low thrum of Bucky’s voice running through him with their close contact and saw his lips moving as he mouthed the words. _Jerk._ And, the thing was, his voice wasn’t even unpleasant. Guy had a mellow baritone that only struggled a little with the highest notes, but Clint wasn’t budging an inch on that song. Not for a minute.

Bucky finished the stitches and trimmed the suture, and he spent a few minutes cleaning Clint up, swabbing at his bruises with a slightly cleaner damp rag. “You should probably get a hold of Stark. And Wilson.”

Bucky gave Clint’s shoulder a firm squeeze. He stood up and took his warmth with him. Clint immediately felt the draft he left behind and huddled back under the blanket.

He turned his aids back on just in time to hear Bucky tell him “...signal sucks here.”

“You knew about this place, though.”

“It’s not SHIELD’s,” Bucky explained.

Clint frowned and glanced around, as though he was afraid to say anything else. “The _fuck_. Bucky. Seriously?”

“Not all of my old connections from the Red Room want me dead,” Bucky offered. “A few of them owed me some favors.”

“Favors.”

“Are you hungry? I’m hungry.” Leave it to Buck-O to distract him the best way he knew how. Clint sighed and threw up his hands.

Then, Clint sagged back against the couch and tipped his head back, staring up at the rafters. “Great. Out of the bunker that AIM blew up all over us, and straight into the safehouse run by Russian spies.”

“Maybe it’s not ideal. Want me to drop you back off at the bunker? There’s gotta be a few more AIM operatives lurking around. _They_ probably won’t have gingerbread, either.”

“What _do_ we have?”

“Well…” Bucky yanked open a few cabinets. “Not. Much. Yeah. Okay. That looks like a can of soup. Oh, and Cup O’Noodles. And some granola bars that look, frankly… a little mummified. Think they’re a little past the expiration date.”

“So’m I.”

“Oh, are we playing that game? Well, _so’m I_ ,” Bucky snarked. He came out of the kitchen and tossed Clint one of the unappetizing bars still in its crumpled wrapper. “There’s instant coffee.”

“Oh, the _indignity._ ”

Bucky tried unsuccessfully to call Sam. Nothing. The roaming signal just kept failing. Wilson was out of range.

“Did you hit any of the Black Friday sales?”

“Just the ones online. I don’t do crowds.”

“What? Little greasy punk like you? You probably slip right through ‘em,” Clint teased as he ripped open the granola wrapper. “God, this thing is tough as a spare tire!”

“There’s nothing I even need for myself.”

“No family to shop for?”

“Becca and I promised each other no gifts. She’s pretty much the only family I have, so.”

“Oh.”

“You?”

“Just Barney. He’s, uh. Still being Barney. He’s due to get out of the joint in another five to seven for good behavior.” Clint paused a moment. “Was thinking about getting him some decent socks.”

Bucky joined him a little later on the couch and set down the steaming ramen cup and a bowl of unremarkable looking tomato soup. Clint automatically reached for the ramen; Bucky didn’t make an attempt for either until Clint made his choice. “Bon appetit.”

“Dinner wasn’t looking much different than this, anyway, honestly. I just hate cooking for one.”

“So? Don’t, then. Have Natalia over.”

“She doesn’t cook, either. I guarantee you that right now, Nat’s digging into a bucket of KFC and watching her Netflix queue.”

“I don’t mean to cook, I just mean for the company.”

“Sometimes, she doesn’t want company.”

Bucky shrugged, then nodded. “You’re not wrong.” He took the edge of Clint’s blanket and tugged it over himself.

“Hey! I was all tucked in. You’re giving me a draft!”

“Quit being such a baby, Barton. Sheesh.” Bucky scooted closer to him, pressing in until they were flush together from shoulder to thigh before he retrieved his bowl of soup. That eliminated the draft. _Fuck, this guy runs warm._ Clint decided to stop complaining and eat his noodles.

“I hate bein’ cold.”

“You ain’t lyin’, pal.”

“Thought you’d be used to it.”

“Hahaha. Yeah. Fuck off with that. You think I wouldn’t enjoy hanging out somewhere warm for a change? Like Lake Havasu? Or Fort Lauderdale? Or Baja?”

“Mmmmm.” Clint’s groan vibrated through them both. “That sounds nice.”

“I thought this mission would be easy in, easy out.”

“And you talked shit about _me_ making plans for tonight.”

“So sue me for not seeing that rocket launcher coming.”

“Well. You just saw it _too late_.”

“Wilson’s gotta be worried by now.”

“Nah. He’s taking bets on how long it takes us to get a hold of him.”

Bucky made short work of the soup.

“That was all there was?”

“There’s not much else. Saw a few cans of other things. Like, beans. And corn.”

Clint wrinkled his nose. “Check the rest of the cabinets, why don’tcha?”

“Picky, picky.”

“Hey, I ate better than that at the orphanage, and that’s saying something?”

“I didn’t eat much better than that growing up in the thirties, Barton. Somebody’s _pampered_.”

“Why are we friends again?” But when Bucky left the couch, the draft returned, and Clint called out to him, “Hurry back. I’m freezing my tookus off over here.” He _definitely_ needed Bucky to hurry back; the guy was like a living space heater.

Bucky snickered and continued root through the cupboards and drawers, including the freezer in his search. “Hey, somebody left behind some tater tots. And some cocoa.”

“NICE.”

“Christmas came early.”

They snarked at each other while Bucky did what he could with the limited selection of cookware and the dilapidated gas stove. A while later, Clint felt a little more human without his stomach growling so loudly. They blew on the steaming hot potato nuggets, hissing as they burned the tips of their fingers while they ate.

“Glad you’re a cheap date, Barton.”

“Shut up and tuck us back in.” Clint twisted around to stare at him. “Your hair is still wet.”

“It won’t be for long.”

“I’m getting cold just looking at you, Buck-O.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

But Clint fretted about it, anyway. Once they finished the rest of their supper, Clint got up, abandoning the blanket and his warm spot on the couch. “Where are you going?”

“To get a towel or something.”

“You shouldn’t be up.”

“I’m better,” Clint lied, even though his head was still throbbing, but at least the room wasn’t spinning. Eating had helped. “You don’t need to catch a chill.”

“I won’t. Serum?”

Clint ignored him and found a towel, the last decent one hanging in the bathroom. Bucky hadn’t lied about the plumbing. The enamel was wearing off the toilet seat and sink, and the linoleum was peeling and cracked. Rust stains ran down the walls of the tub, and the door’s paint was spotted with mildew. “So not the Ritz,” Clint muttered. He came back to the front room with the towel and leaned over Bucky, who still looked indignant at being left behind, and moreso when Clint began to scrub at his hair.

“Ow! Don’t be so rough!”

“Sorry. It’s a rat’s nest. When’s the last time you combed it?” Clint’s hands gentled, and he slowly squeezed the moisture out of his damp, glistening locks. Bucky eased back and stared up at Clint in fading annoyance. 

“I _like_ my hair. Quit talking shit about it.”

“They make grooming products for it, now, y’know.”

“I could look like I escaped from a boy band to cut a solo album, like _some_ people I know.”

“Quit talking about your best friend like that. Steve would be heartbroken.” That earned him Bucky’s low snort.

“Why’re you fussin’ over me, anyway?”

“Someone has to. I mean, look at you.”

“Pot. Kettle.” Bucky looked up at him again, letting the back of his head bump back against Clint’s stomach. “I’m not the one with stitches.” 

“Bet my cuts weren’t even that bad. Bet you did that just to poke holes in me.”

“Sorry I didn’t have any Mickey Mouse band-aids.”

“You _should_ be. Such an outrage. Your lack of planning speaks volumes. Hey. Have you always had these little highlights?”

“Huh?”

“There’s. All these little bits of blond. And a little copper.” Clint paused in drying it. “In your hair.”

“They come out more in the summer. When I spend more time outside.”

“Guess they would.”

Bucky dared to tip his head back again and stared up at him. Clint looked haggard and tired, but it didn’t detract from the handsomeness of his bone structure. His piercing, robin’s egg blue eyes were watery and a little bloodshot, but they were wholly focused on Bucky.

“You need a shave.”

“Yeah? Well, you need a breath mint.”

Because what else could Bucky say to dispel the strange blur of tension that rose up between them, with Clint’s hands in his hair, that suddenly paused for a moment, only for one of them to brush the side of his jaw, palm splayed all broad and warm against his skin?

The spell was broken. Clint released him and tossed the towel in his face in a damp heap.

“There’s gotta be more blankets in this dump,” he groused as he walked away.

“I’ll throw some more wood onto the fire,” Bucky offered. “I’m not gonna let you get cold, okay?”

“Thanks, Prince Charming.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, yeah…”

“You’re _welcome._ ” Bucky tugged his boots back on, an unwelcome feeling after some of the feeling had finally re-entered his tingling toes. He shrugged back into his damp jacket and jerked open the door. Snow was coming down even harder than before. Bucky yanked the door shut behind him with some effort as a gust of wind nearly blew the knob out of his grip. This was _worse_ than winter in Brooklyn, and that was saying something. Bucky shivered against the fresh attack of icy wind and flurries as they flew into his face. He tramped around to the side of the house, lifted the cover over the cord of wood, and selected three more logs, one of which looked thick and promised to burn steadily into the night. Good enough, for now. It would help them if Bucky could find some other towels or rags to line the windows with to block out some of the drafts. Clint barely had an ounce of fat on him. Tall, lean guy like him, who’d just lost a lot of blood, was gonna have a hard time staying warm without a little help. 

Help that Bucky specialized in, didn’t he?

Bucky hurried back inside and locked them back in, regretting the drafts that had the chance to rush inside in the process. Bucky heard Clint rummaging around in the back of the cabin and found him hanging on the door to the linen pantry. “There ain’t much… get out of that wet stuff, Bucky, I’m getting cold looking at you, again. But, there’s some extra towels. We can roll them up and use them on the windows and doors? Might help with the draft.”

“I was just thinking that.”

“Yeah? Well, good for you.”

“Are you talking all this shit because you feel like it, or just because you got hit in the head?”

“Take some towels and start rolling. God, Barnes, your hair’s all snowy again. Kinda defeats the purpose if you’re just gonna get wet again after I just dried you off!”

Bucky almost suggested that Clint would have to just start all over again. His lips twisted as he walked off to shuck his jacket and boots again. The two of them started tucking rolled-up towels against the crevices of the windowsills and against the seam of the doors. Bucky stoked the flames and added another log. Outside, the sun had already set, and the stars were slowly popping out against the inky black.

“We’re gonna have to figure out sleeping arrangements,” Bucky informed Clint. 

“Wanna flip a coin for the couch?”

“Pfffft… fuck that shit. We’re gonna move some things around. I’m bringing the mattress out here. It’s not great, but it beats either one of us freezing his ass off back in that room where the heat from the fire won’t reach.”

“We could still just use the space heater.” Clint tried to demonstrate this. He plugged it into the wall using the fraying cord and turned it on. Moments later, he smelled burning wires and the thing sparked, making the coils in the radiator flare bright orange. “ShitshitSHIT!”

“Turn that thing off, dumbass!”

“Okay, shit! I was just tryin’ to make things easier!”

“Well, let’s go back to plan A where I bring the mattress back from the other room, we lay it out, and neither one of us has to freeze back there. Okay?”

“Okay.” Clint sounded disgruntled but mollified. “I can help.”

“No, you can’t.”

Bucky came back out hauling the mattress sideways down the short corridor, and he propped it against the wall before he shoved the sofa further back from the fireplace. The mattress was full-sized and musty-smelling, dressed in an old, nubby fitted sheet. Clint thought of his own five-hundred thread count sheets back at his apartment with longing. But this was still better than trying to sleep on that couch, which didn’t look like a sleeper pullout, where he’d either be folded in half or dangling his long legs off the side. No, thanks.

And, y’know.

The company could be worse.

They both stared down at the single mattress. Then back at each other. Musing.

“Looks cozy,” Bucky muttered.

“You wanna sleep closer to the fire?” Clint offered.

“Nah.” Bucky could tell Clint wanted it, even though he offered it. And Bucky wasn’t about to let him catch a chill. “I’ll bring the rest of the covers from the other room. Tuck yourself back in under the blanket.”

“After I dry your hair back off, goofball.”

Bucky smirked to himself as he turned his back and retrieved the rest of the blankets and sheets. The comforter looked like it was green once upon a time, having faded to a sludgy, nondescript gray. Bucky tried to convince himself that was from repeated washings. The blankets were also nubby, but heavy and warm. He dressed their makeshift bed and threw down the pillow from the bed and one of the throw cushions from the couch. There. It was good enough.

“Siddown.”

“God, yer bossy,” Bucky told him.

“And you’re all wet. You are _not_ getting that bed and those pillows all wet before we go to bed. That’s a dealbreaker, Buck-O.” 

Bucky sat himself back down on the couch, and Clint returned with the towel, being gentler this time as Bucky suggested. Clint worked the terry cloth through his hair, rubbing and squeezing at the soft waves. Bucky exhaled and leaned into it, shoulders relaxing as Clint hummed to himself. Bucky’s arm laid over the couch arm, gleaming in the firelight. The edge of Clint’s hip leaned against it slightly. Neither of them minded the contact.

“Does that thing make you cold?”

“What? This?” Bucky wiggled his fingers. “Not really. It adjusts to my body temperature. Tony configured it to my biomatrix to receive those signals from my nervous system and adapt accordingly. Which kinda helps when your arm’s made of the world’s strongest, shock-resistant metal.”

“You could’ve just said ‘no, Clint, it doesn’t.’ Instead, you got all fancy and science-y on me.”

“I like hearing myself talk.”

Clint’s nose scrunched a little when he laughed. “Hey. I didn’t say I didn’t.”

_Okay._ Bucky was fine with that.

“Just don’t sing me anymore Mariah.”

“I’m not promising anything.”

“Bucky…”

“A fella might burst into song any minute just to break the monotony. And I’ve gotta reward you for thinking about my well-being, drying me off and all.”

“Silence is its own reward.”

“Not out here. It’s gonna be enough to drive us stir crazy, pal. Unless counting snowflakes is your idea of a good time.”

“My idea of a good time?” Clint chuckled. “You might not wanna go there, Buck.”

“Maybe you wanna let me know if where _I_ wanna go is goin’ too far, Barton.”

“What-”

Bucky moved his hand, and Clint stiffened when it slid down his leg, giving his knee a little squeeze. Bucky’s pupils got all blown and dark as he gazed up at Clint. Clint was barely drying Bucky’s hair at this point, spending more effort just combing his fingers through it and massaging his scalp and neck, which was doing things to Bucky. The scritch of Clint’s short nails and his dexterous fingers’ gentle tugs on his hair was hypnotic, almost sensual. Their close contact, shared heat, and the mere knowledge that they were alone, with no interruptions was making it hard to ignore this strange, tense little thing building between them. Because maybe, it was always there. Just. Flickering. Sparking. Waiting to be acknowledged.

Bucky’s hand on his leg made Clint’s dick jealous. It stirred to life, straining the crotch of his tak pants. 

“I don’t have any gingerbread. Can’t watch Dog Cops because we don’t have a signal, and that TV is a piece of crap,” Bucky told him almost apologetically, but his voice was smooth and easy, not sounding anything at all like a guy who expected Clint to tell him no. “And you don’t want me singing you any Mariah Carey. That was about as close to ‘holiday cheer’ as you’re gonna get from me, but that’s some ‘frightful’ weather out there. It’s just gonna keep on snowing, and you need to stay warm, right?” Clint absently removed the towel, draping it over the back of the couch. His fingers were still clutching the back of Bucky’s hair, and he was staring into Bucky’s eyes, and down at his mouth. “I can help with that.”

“So far, letting you get close has gotten me nothing but stitches and bein’ hauled around like a sack of potatoes.”

“Let me know if you get any better offers, then-”

Bucky felt Clint steal his words with a kiss that was firm and demanding. He tasted salty-sweet from the noodles and cocoa. He tugged Bucky’s hair to urge him to tip his head back, making him groan with need. The sound gave Clint all the encouragement he needed. Bucky opened for him and felt his tongue sweep inside, warm and velvety. He gave Clint’s thigh another squeeze, kneading the firm muscle. His other hand reached up to cup Clint’s jaw; Clint was sporting a thin layer of stubble, too. A clean shave wouldn’t do either of them any favors in this crap weather, but Bucky enjoyed the texture of it against his palm.

They came up for air, panting a little, and Bucky rasped, “Lights,” leaving the fire as their only glow.

“Are you kidding me?” Clint teased.

“Sets the mood, doesn’t it?”

He wasn’t wrong.

The little cabin looked less shabby, more cozy in the firelight. The snow piling up on the windows appeared crystalline and pristine, and Bucky’s eyes took in all the hollows, curves and shadows of Clint’s face, paying less attention to the wound dressing and more to the sharpness of his jaw, the nose that had been broken more than once but that didn’t mar his looks, the slight arch of his brows. Bucky pulled him down for more kisses, languorous and deep. Clint struggled with the urge to keep kissing him and to somehow maneuver himself off the arm of the couch.

“Wait. Just… wait.”

Clint broke the contact just long enough to fully straighten up, pull Bucky to his feet and then sit down in his spot himself.

“Hey! I just warmed that spot up!”

“I know that.”

“Jerk.”

“C’mere…”

Clint drew him down, making him straddle his lap. 

“You said you’d keep me warm. So, cover me up.”

Bucky’s grin was smug. Clint leaned up and kissed it from his mouth. His hands greedily roamed up his thighs and hips while Bucky’s arms caged him in close. 

Once they closed the bathroom and bedroom doors and sealed up the windows, the room grew toasty warm, and their clothes began to feel stifling. Clint’s hands untucked the hem of Bucky’s shirt from his waistband and crept beneath it, finding his warm, smooth skin.

“Nice and warm,” Clint murmured. “Feel good…”

“Skin on skin feels even better, if you’re game. If I get you under the blankets?”

“In a minute.” Clint kneaded the curve of Bucky’s ass, and Bucky ground down against him, letting Clint feel his growing, swelling hardness. “You feel pretty nice right here, baby.”

“You’re still that cold?”

“Yeah. I’m not in a hurry to take off my clothes. Sorry…”

“That’s fine.” Clint heard the humor in his voice as Bucky nipped at his lips, sucking on the lower one. Clint bucked up against him and let his hands roam under Bucky’s shirt. He was all muscle and warm, so damned warm. “It’s been a while since anyone let me feel them up over their clothes. I’ll just have to get creative.”

“Not _that_ creative. Like I said, just give me a little time.”

“Okay. Because I want to see you, all stretched out under me. All of you.”

“Jesus, Bucky…”

Bucky cupped Clint’s face in his hands and kissed him every way he could think of. Clint shuddered when Bucky’s mouth trailed down along the line of his jaw, nipping and lapping a sizzling trail down the side of his throat. Heat coursed through Clint’s body as Bucky ground down against him, moving in a slow rhythm. Clint whined, craving more friction, which Bucky delivered with precision. He could feel his straining hardness between them, inviting the stroke of his fingers. Bucky’s breath escaped him in a shudder. He nipped at Clint’s ear in umbrage, and he caught the tender lobe between his teeth.

“When’s the last time anybody felt _you_ up, huh?”

“Everything runs together sometimes,” Bucky murmured into his skin. “Maybe back in ‘45. I _know_ that was the last time I remember _enjoying_ it.” 

“Awwwww,” Clint crooned. “Buck. Yer gonna make me sad. No sad Bucky.”

“I ain’t sad, buddy. Ain’t gonna see me cry a single tear. I’m just fine. Just fine.” Bucky reassured him between kisses and laps of his clever tongue, and Clint finally felt the last of his chills subside. Clint scooted them off the couch and stood them up. He had to lean down to kiss Bucky, because he towered over him, but he pulled their bodies flush against one another, and Bucky took advantage of the fact that he could reach all of him this way. “Tell me you’re warm enough, now.”

“Getting there.”

Clint waltzed them over to the mattress, and he tumbled them down onto it, pulling Bucky over him for a preview of what Bucky promised. 

“Careful, don’t jar yourself too much.”

That was Clint’s fault for wincing a little as they landed, because his head still hurt from his injuries, but the siren call of Bucky’s body spread over him with its tempting heat made him forget his discomfort. Clint was hungry for the feel of him, and his hands mapped out his muscles and flesh, tracing them and counting the bumps of his spine. Clint tugged on Bucky’s hair again to make him give him access to his throat. He lapped at his pulse and the elegant cords, teasing his clavicles where they peeked over the edge of his collar. 

“ _Clint._ ”

Clint didn’t feel like talking. He needed to feel him and hear his breathing change, and he wanted to see how Bucky looked when he was all worked up and getting lost in what Clint made him feel. He needed to taste his skin when it was seasoned with his sweat. He needed to see his eyes grow dark and desperate with passion and need, and to hear what he sounded like when he was absolutely _wrecked._

Clint’s eyes were _feral_ in the golden, flickering light as he studied Bucky between kisses and finally worked his shirt up, up, and off, baring him to his hungry gaze. _Beautiful._ The sinewy curves and slopes of his torso were perfect, a counterpoint to the sleekness of his left arm, with its cool glints and perfectly machined plates. Bucky’s nipples were ruched and eager to be touched. Teased. Clint gently rolled one peak between his fingers just to hear him gasp, and Bucky ground down against him in response. _How fucking long has it been since this guy’s been properly touched?_ He was so eager and responsive. He liked it when Clint kissed the line of his jaw and nibbled at the cleft in his chin. Or when he explored the old, lacy scars around the seam of his shoulder, where metal met flesh with lips and reverent fingertips. Clint eased himself down between Bucky’s legs, letting him straddle Clint’s ribs so he could better reach those nipples. He teased Bucky senseless, lapping at those tender peaks, even while his hands fumbled with the snap at Bucky’s waistband. Bucky didn’t help him; he didn’t want his own hands getting in Clint’s way when he was making such good progress on his own. His hands instead combed through Barton’s short, spiky locks as he sucked on him. Bucky felt so much heat between his legs. His dick throbbed and jerked with every dart of Clint’s tongue, and Clint kneaded his ass through the pants. (Bucky was seriously beginning to resent those pants.)

Bucky huffed out little, desperate sounds above him, and Clint felt himself straining. Leaking. And he was finally _warm_ now that the fire had the chance to chase away all the chill in the room and Bucky had finally covered him. Clint paused for a moment, kissing Bucky one more time in apology before he made him hold still. Then, he reached above his head and tugged at the back of his shirt’s neckline, pulling it up and off with some difficulty, since they were lying down, and the action mussed his hair even more hopelessly than Bucky’s frantic hands, but his skin was blessedly bare and golden in the firelight. There were scars, but most of them had healed to a healthy pink. And there were freckles here and there, because Hawkeye loved any time that he spent outside in full sunlight. His arms and chest were well developed and sculpted with lean muscle. Bucky traced the veins with his fingertips, and they kissed wherever their lips found ground. 

Bucky had been right; his metal hand didn’t feel any cooler than the flesh one. _Gonna have to thank Stark for his upgrades to the original design._

After a grunting, shifting scuffle, they freed each other from their pants, leaving them in a crumpled heap on the floor. Bucky managed to free the edge of the blanket from beneath them and covered them up, intending to keep his promise to Clint. Clint reached between their bodies and ringed Bucky in his grip, giving his shaft a few experimental strokes. They were both already leaking, throbbing for more. Bucky propped himself on his forearms and thrust down into Clint’s grip. Clint’s dick found its way into his fist, too, and Bucky gave them both friction where they both craved it, angling his hips just right, slowly picking up speed.

Clint knew he wasn’t going to last before they got to the good part. But it felt so good already, and Bucky was already breathing heavy, with the beginnings of a gorgeous flush across his cheeks. His pupils were blown with passion and his hair was falling down around his face in tousled waves. Clint longed to mess him up some more.

Bucky felt himself leaking already, and Clint’s thumb was spreading the moisture over the head of his cock with slick, deft little swipes, making him shiver and gasp. Clint gave him a wicked look and began to ease himself down beneath Bucky, urging Bucky to move up.

“What… _oh._ ” Bucky now found himself straddling Clint’s _face_ once Clint licked his way down Bucky’s sternum, followed his happy trail, and lipped at the head of his cock teasingly, toying with it before he sucked him down.

Clint’s head rose to meet his thrusts, movements that he couldn’t control when Clint’s mouth felt so hot, slick and perfect. His hips forced him to zero in on the source of that pleasure, seeking shelter in it. Bucky groaned and Clint hummed around him, letting the vibrations pulse through his flesh. Bucky’s arms supported him as he thrust down, fucking into Clint’s mouth. His hips corkscrewed a little, just to show off, and Clint grunted his approval, squeezing Bucky’s thighs where they pressed against his cheeks. He tasted salty and a little musky. Clint breathed in the scent of his skin and his own neglected cock was bobbing a little from the impact of Bucky giving his face a workout, not to mention just sheer arousal from his vantage point. Clint’s eyes were watering from the press of thickness against his palate, but he kept pushing his head up to meet him. Bucky didn’t envy him the eventual kink in his neck when they both woke up the next morning. But Clint just went for it. It was so good. _So good._

Bucky remembered himself long minutes later. He was supposed to be taking care of Barton, not putting him through a sexual gauntlet. Not with a _head wound._ He stopped thrusting and tried to ease back, and he heard Clint’s whine of disappointment.

“You’re supposed to be _resting._ ”

“I’ll rest just fine after we both come,” Clint reasoned, even though Bucky was backing off. “Hey! Where are you going?”

“We should be taking it easy.”

“This _is_ easy. I’m feeling better already.”

“There’s also the detail of protection.”

The light went on, and Clint nodded. “I know that even if you have supplies in this crusty heap of a cabin, they’ve gotta be expired by n-”

“Fanny pack.” Bucky gave him a bashful smile. “I mean, it was wishful thinking on my part but I brought a couple. Just. Just in case.”

“Hurry up. Go get ‘em. I’ll keep the covers warm.”

Bucky snickered. That made twice now that Clint held onto the warm spot that Bucky abandoned. No, _three times_. And Clint didn’t mind the view he made as he staggered away, hard-on and all, digging through his things. He unzipped the fanny pack and produced two foil-wrapped condoms and a packet of lube. 

“God, you came prepared.”

“I was in the _military_ , buddy. What’d you expect?”

Clint’s eyes crinkled with amusement, and he was still smiling when Bucky rejoined him in bed.

Minutes later, Bucky laid on his back while Clint opened him up. His kisses were slow and deep, mimicking the movement of his slicked fingers as they probed him. Bucky’s hips kept thrusting down for more contact and deeper penetration, but Clint took his time, even though it meant an erection that was flagging a little, until Bucky rasped up at him, “Please…”

Clint withdrew his hand and gave himself a few brief pumps, but Bucky relieved him of that duty, leaning up and kissing him before he took Clint in his grip. He eased Clint back to full arousal within seconds, still pumping him as he opened the condom wrapper with his teeth. Clint took it from him and handed him the slippery disk. Bucky pinched the tip, pushed the ring down around the plump head, and rolled it down painstakingly.

Before Clint could reach for Bucky and roll him onto his back, Bucky held up a hand.

“Rest. Lay back.”

“Buck-”

“Let me.”

Clint wanted to protest, until he realized… the suggestion wasn’t bad at all. Not when Bucky climbed astride, lined them up, and sank down onto him in one smooth, snug shunt. The choked sound of pleasure that escaped Bucky, the rapture that suffused his face as he enveloped Clint… Clint felt it all the way down to his _marrow_.

So, Clint _let him._

Over.

And over.

And _over_.

Bucky leaned forward, hands clutching the pillow on either side of Clint’s head, and he rode Clint slowly at first. Watching him for discomfort, letting him process it and enjoy his easy glide. Clint’s breathing was rough. He gripped Bucky’s narrow hips, and his blunt nails dug in, leaving little crescents in his flesh. Bucky shifted, improving the angle so that Clint would graze his sweet spot _just right_. Clint’s hips rose to meet him, pushing himself further into Bucky’s heat. Clint drank in the full experience. The beauty of that body. That face. Those desperate little cries and gasps from his rosy, kiss-swollen mouth. His tight, lush hold on Clint’s dick. Clint reached down and stroked Bucky, pumping his plump, bobbing shaft in time with his thrusts. He was growing slick and hot in Clint’s palm. Bucky’s groans filled the room. Just what Clint wanted to hear. The shifting, quickening rhythm drove all sense and reason from Clint’s mind. He felt his climax building, running down his spine and surging through him in waves. 

His orgasm rippled through him, drawn out by Bucky’s determined, even thrusts. Bucky milked him dry. Spent. Clint was _spent._ But he still pumped Bucky, giving him a final few thrusts before he pulled Bucky over the edge. He spilled his seed, gushing thick, slippery streams over Clint’s fist. But the best part was his face. That _face_. Nothing was more perfect than watching him reach his peak. That look of wonder. They way his features soften and go slack. That flush of color. Fucking _beautiful._

*

The postcoital scuffle and shuffle was awkward, because when wasn’t it?

But, they managed it. The condom made it into the trash, they cleaned each other up using the one last towel that wasn’t folded and stuffed against a windowsill, and they pulled on underwear and shirts before re-stoking the fire and throwing on the remaining logs. They climbed back beneath the covers and cuddled for a while, watching the resulting shadows that the flames threw against the walls dance on every surface. Clint took every liberty this time with no excuses, letting their feet tangle together and warming his hands under Bucky’s shirt, stroking that inviting, warm flesh just because he could. Clint didn’t have Bucky’s serum, so he wouldn’t just conveniently heal overnight, but at least he felt loose and relaxed.

“Wishful thinking,” Clint mused.

“Been wishing that for a while.”

“Yeah? Well. Me, too.”

Clint’s hand stroked Bucky’s hair, combing his fingers through its unruly tangles. Bucky hummed in contentment.

“I wish we could do this over. I mean, do it right. In my bed. With my good sheets. With the bedroom door open, so you can still see the Christmas tree I put up in the living room with the lights on. Maybe with some decent music playing.”

“Please tell me your apartment has central heat.”

“You know it.” Clint’s lips brushed Bucky’s forehead in the dark, and his arms tightened around him. “I know how to take care of my Brooklyn boy. It’s not _that_ much of a dump.”

“This was better than the present I planned for you. I was just gonna get you some fuzzy socks.” Maybe it was the afterglow that was making Bucky spill that confession. Or, maybe it was Clint calling him _his_.

Bucky heard the crack of Clint’s smile in the dark.

“Are you kidding me? I will never, _ever_ say no to socks. Get me _all_ the socks. My feet are _freezing._ ”


End file.
